Cromwell's Letter.
At the very moment when the queen quitted the convent to go to the Palais Royal, a young man dismounted at the gate of this royal abode and announced to the guards that he had something of importance to communicate to Cardinal Mazarin.
Although the cardinal was often tormented by fear, he was more often in need of counsel and information, and he was therefore sufficiently accessible. The true difficulty of being admitted was not to be found at the first door, and even the second was passed easily enough; but at the third watched, besides the guard and the doorkeepers, the faithful Bernouin, a Cerberus whom no speech could soften, no wand, even of gold, could charm.
It was therefore at the third door that those who solicited or were bidden to an audience underwent their formal interrogatory.
The young man having left his horse tied to the gate in the court, mounted the great staircase and addressed the guard in the first chamber.
"Cardinal Mazarin?" said he.
"Pass on," replied the guard.
The cavalier entered the second hall, which was guarded by the musketeers and doorkeepers.
"Have you a letter of audience?" asked a porter, advancing to the new arrival.
"I have one, but not one from Cardinal Mazarin."
"Enter, and ask for Monsieur Bernouin," said the porter, opening the door of the third room. Whether he only held his usual post or whether it was by accident, Monsieur Bernouin was found standing behind the door and must have heard all that had passed.
"You seek me, sir," said he. "From whom may the letter be you bear to his eminence?"
"From General Oliver Cromwell," said the new comer. "Be so good as to mention this name to his eminence and to bring me word whether he will receive me -- yes or no."
Saying which, he resumed the proud and sombre bearing peculiar at that time to Puritans. Bernouin cast an inquisitorial glance at the person of the young man and entered the cabinet of the cardinal, to whom he transmitted the messenger's words.
"A man bringing a letter from Oliver Cromwell?" said Mazarin. "And what kind of a man?"
"A genuine Englishman, your eminence. Hair sandy-red -- more red than sandy; gray-blue eyes -- more gray than blue; and for the rest, stiff and proud."
"Let him give in his letter."
"His eminence asks for the letter," said Bernouin, passing back into the ante-chamber.
"His eminence cannot see the letter without the bearer of it," replied the young man; "but to convince you that I am really the bearer of a letter, see, here it is; and kindly add," continued he, "that I am not a simple messenger, but an envoy extraordinary."
Bernouin re-entered the cabinet, returning in a few seconds.
"Enter, sir," said he.
The young man appeared on the threshold of the minister's closet, in one hand holding his hat, in the other the letter. Mazarin rose. "Have you, sir," asked he, "a letter accrediting you to me?"
"There it is, my lord," said the young man.
Mazarin took the letter and read it thus:
"Mr. Mordaunt, one of my secretaries, will remit this letter of introduction to His Eminence, the Cardinal Mazarin, in Paris. He is also the bearer of a second confidential epistle for his eminence.
"Oliver Cromwell.
"Very well, Monsieur Mordaunt," said Mazarin, "give me this second letter and sit down."
The young man drew from his pocket a second letter, presented it to the cardinal, and took his seat. The cardinal, however, did not unseal the letter at once, but continued to turn it again and again in his hand; then, in accordance with his usual custom and judging from experience that few people could hide anything from him when he began to question them, fixing his eyes upon them at the same time, he thus addressed the messenger:
"You are very young, Monsieur Mordaunt, for this difficult task of ambassador, in which the oldest diplomatists often fail."
"My lord, I am twenty-three years of age; but your eminence is mistaken in saying that I am young. I am older than your eminence, although I possess not your wisdom. Years of suffering, in my opinion, count double, and I have suffered for twenty years."
"Ah, yes, I understand," said Mazarin; "want of fortune, perhaps. You are poor, are you not?" Then he added to himself: "These English Revolutionists are all beggars and ill-bred."
"My lord, I ought to have a fortune of six millions, but it has been taken from me."
"You are not, then, a man of the people?" said Mazarin, astonished.
"If I bore my proper title I should be a lord. If I bore my name you would have heard one of the most illustrious names of England."
"What is your name, then?" asked Mazarin.
"My name is Mordaunt," replied the young man, bowing.
Mazarin now understood that Cromwell's envoy desired to retain his incognito. He was silent for an instant, and during that time he scanned the young man even more attentively than he had done at first. The messenger was unmoved.
"Devil take these Puritans," said Mazarin aside; "they are carved from granite." Then he added aloud, "But you have relations left you?"
"I have one remaining. Three times I presented myself to ask his support and three times he ordered his servants to turn me away."
"Oh, mon Dieu! my dear Mr. Mordaunt," said Mazarin, hoping by a display of affected pity to catch the young man in a snare, "how extremely your history interests me! You know not, then, anything of your birth -- you have never seen your mother?"
"Yes, my lord; she came three times, whilst I was a child, to my nurse's house; I remember the last time she came as well as if it were to-day."
"You have a good memory," said Mazarin.
"Oh! yes, my lord," said the young man, with such peculiar emphasis that the cardinal felt a shudder run through every vein.
"And who brought you up?" he asked again.
"A French nurse, who sent me away when I was five years old because no one paid her for me, telling me the name of a relation of whom she had heard my mother often speak."
"What became of you?"